If Catfish Had Nine Lives (Country Cooking School Mystery)

by Paige Shelton

  Or just give me something different to worry about.

  Chapter 9

  “Joe actually was a Pony Express rider?” I said to Gram as she, Joe, and I were gathered in the cooking school’s kitchen. Joe’s horse was tethered outside. Seeing the animal had given me a jolt when I’d pulled into the parking lot. It was almost dark when I’d arrived, and I learned quickly that even ghost horses became more dimensional, more solid in the dark for both Gram and me when I was around. I’d never seen a horse tethered to the sign outside the school, but I supposed many had been back when they were the main mode of transportation and the building had been a church.

  After I parked the car, the temptation to move closer to the horse was irresistible. I was able to pet him, though there was no warmth or texture to the touch, and the horse, unlike the human ghosts, had no scent whatsoever, which I decided probably wasn’t a bad thing. But it was the horse’s eyes that garnered most of my attention anyway. With his, he looked directly into mine, blinking with an intelligence that was unsettling.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  The horse nudged my shoulder with his nose and then blew a breath out that was made of only sound. There was no air attached to the long-dead animal.

  I inspected the mochila over the saddle closely for any sign of tooled letters or initials, but this one wasn’t marked like the one we’d looked at in Jake’s back room.

  “I’ll see you later,” I said before I stepped inside the school. I was almost sure that the horse nodded.

  A faint scent of leather hung in the air, but it was just enough that I was reminded of a fellow law school student who had always worn an old leather jacket and carried an old leather briefcase. He also drank a twelve-pack of beer almost every night and slept during most of the classes. Unlike my case, where I chose to drop out, school administrators had strongly suggested to him that failing law school wasn’t the right path to becoming an attorney and had asked him to leave.

  “We know exactly why Joe’s here,” Gram said when she saw me. “He and I have had a number of adventures together.”

  “Okay,” I said as I looked at our new ghost. He wasn’t unfriendly, necessarily, but he didn’t act as though he cared much that I could see and talk to him. He was Gram’s ghost, and Gram’s ghost he would remain. “But I have to ask first, Joe—are you sure you aren’t Astin Reagal? Or maybe Charlie Reagal, though he might have changed his last name over time?”

  Joe brought his grimy face up and his eyebrows together. “No, ma’am, I’m positive. Why do you ask?”

  “Yeah, Betts, why do you ask, and who is Astin Reagal?”

  The situation held too many coincidences to believe that was all it really was—could it be chance that two mochilas, two Pony Express riders, and two badges had come into my life in one day?

  “I guess it’s not really important who Astin was other than the fact that he was an Express rider too,” I said. “But I just learned about him today.” I continued to inspect Joe and his painfully young face; young death was becoming more and more difficult for me to accept. I was looking for some sort of reaction, some telltale sign that he was lying about who he was. He seemed somewhat uncomfortable with my stare, but as I’d already noticed, he didn’t seem to much care if he and I could communicate or not. Maybe he just wanted me to leave. “I don’t think I’ve ever given Pony Express riders a second thought, and now . . .”

  Gram shrugged. “It is Broken Rope.”

  “It is,” I agreed. Sometimes that was enough to explain the string of strange occurrences in our town, but I still wondered.

  “Anyway,” Gram continued. “Joe does need help.”

  “Just a few more, Miz,” Joe added, a smile lighting his face and eyes.

  I hoisted myself up to a stool and said, “What do you need?”

  “Joe needs to have some letters delivered. Or the essence of them delivered, at least.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Gram joined me on a neighboring stool. “A little of Joe’s story first, I suppose. He’s one of our unique ghosts, Betts. He remembers what he’s supposed to do every time he joins me . . . uh, us. He doesn’t remember his life, just this one purpose that he and I have been working on for decades. He doesn’t ever stay long; that’s why it’s taken us so many years. But with only three letters left, we might be able to get him taken care of on this trip.”

  “Taken care of? What will happen when all the letters are delivered?”

  “We don’t know,” Gram said.

  “Not sure at all. I just know it’s something I’ve got to do,” Joe said.

  “Why didn’t you get the letters delivered when you were alive?” I asked. Maybe because you are the ghost of Astin Reagal and you died on the trail, your deliveries being lost along the way?

  “That’s part of what we don’t know,” Gram answered for Joe as she smiled at him.

  I admired her attitude. Usually, Gram hadn’t expressed much patience with the ghosts, but it seemed she was actually attempting to be delicate or careful with Joe, wanting to make sure his feelings weren’t hurt. I wanted to know why—did she have a special fondness for this ghost, or did she just want to get rid of him as quickly as possible, and think the pleasant, polite road was the path easier traveled?

  “Did you ever research his life? Is he buried in our cemetery?” I asked Gram.

  Gram shook her head. “We don’t know. We don’t know Joe’s last name, but I suspect he’s buried somewhere in or around Broken Rope.”

  I wondered what Jake could do with the minimal information of Joe, Pony Express rider. Could something that vague help him find more information about our ghost? If anyone could dig up something of value, Jake could.

  I also wondered if Jake or Esther might have a picture or at least a passed-down description of what Astin Reagal looked like.

  “If the rest of the facts are so unclear, how can you be sure that your name is Joe?” I said.

  Joe shrugged. “I don’t have any idea. It’s just something I know. One of the few things I am certain of.”

  But that didn’t necessarily mean it was factual. My doubts lingered. Strongly.

  “Anyway, now that you’re here, Betts, I thought we could try something,” Gram said. “Joe always carries his letters in the pouch contraption that’s over his saddle.”

  “The mochila.”

  Gram blinked. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Huh. Well, he’s always had to read the letters to me because, of course, I can’t touch them. I can’t really read them either. I can see them, but they’re blurry. I wondered if they might become solid when you’re around, Betts.”

  I slipped off the stool. “Let’s find out.”

  We paraded through the kitchen and the front reception area to the outside of the building. The horse was still there, tethered and seemingly content, though even more dimensional. I’d never spent a lot of time around horses, but there were plenty in Broken Rope. I found them beautiful, with a wise aura, but intimidating. I’d ridden a little when I was a kid, but it had been a long time. I always kept a respectful distance, but I stepped a little closer to the ghost horse, and again it looked back into my eyes. I sensed that this creature had more answers to my questions about Joe than anyone else did. Too bad he couldn’t talk.

  “I told Joe about what happened when it was dark and you were around. It looks like Joe certainly has filled out,” Gram said.

  Just like the other ghosts, Joe had filled out, became less transparent, more solid, more real. I could see a straight inch-long scar on his cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. He was small with delicate features. I wondered if he’d ever even grown facial hair during his living years. I remembered what Jake and Esther had said about eighteen being considered old for Pony Express riders.

  “How old were you when you died?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We figure he might have been seve
nteen or eighteen, but we don’t know for sure,” Gram said.

  “I feel like I was older than that, but I can’t be certain,” Joe said distractedly as he reached into a pocket on the mochila. “There are only three letters left in here, but I can only pull out one at a time and read one at a time. The bag will only let me do it that way.”

  “It’s always been that way,” Gram added.

  “Here, can you see it?” Joe held out an envelope.

  I could see it. It was as solid as Joe was and illuminated by whatever made the ghosts glow when they were in the dark. Joe still wasn’t as solid as when he was alive, but the letter would seem real enough even if it wouldn’t feel like paper. It was as solid as Sally Swarthmore’s ax had been, as solid as the horse. I looked at Gram with my eyebrows high in question. Should I touch it?

  She nodded, so I reached forward.

  It’s the absence of a noticeable change in temperature that I’ve found the most off-putting characteristic of the ghosts and their implements. I can feel their skin and it feels solid, but without warmth. I can sort of feel the different textures of their clothing, but there’s nothing they wear or carry that is warm or cool to the touch. Until I started touching the ghosts and their items, I had no idea how important even tiny temperature differences were to the whole sensory experience.

  I looked at the object in my hands; it didn’t feel like much of anything.

  “The outside of the envelope says Mrs. Frederick Morrison with an address in Broken Rope that still exists, I think,” I said.

  “That’s sometimes helpful, though it’s rare that family from back then still has descendants living in the same place. It can be a start that leads us somewhere, though,” Gram said.

  “Go ahead, open it,” Joe said.

  “Yes, do,” Gram said.

  Carefully, I lifted the flap on the envelope.

  It opened just fine, and I was able to grasp the folded piece of paper inside and easily pull it out.

  I looked at my audience of two, both of whom had big eyes full of anticipation. Actually, the horse did, as well. It was a captivated audience of three.

  “I want to try to touch it, too, but I’ll wait until you see if you can read it,” Gram said. “I don’t want it to poof away or anything.”

  “I doubt that’ll happen, but I understand,” I said.

  I unfolded the letter, and it was covered top to bottom with words written in ornate, old-fashioned handwriting, but still legible.

  “Read it out loud,” Joe said.

  “Okay.” I cleared my throat; it wasn’t a purposefully dramatic pause, but I sensed the audience’s anticipation grow. “It’s dated February 1, 1861. It says: Dearest Elaine, I am sending you greetings from Sacramento. I know you’ve longed to hear from me, and I apologize for the rude delay in my communication, but I have been otherwise detained with so many distractions here and from the other side of the country.

  “Of course, you know about the secession of our home state of Georgia and other states from the Union. This is not something I would have ever thought might happen when we moved to Broken Rope. I left Missouri a year and a half ago to fulfill my dreams in California, but the complications that have arisen through such a drastic action by our home state have filled me with concern as well as infused a surprise dose of patriotism into my soul. Though I must confess, dear sister, I’m having a hard time understanding which side I should fight for, which side to devote that patriotism to; that is, if a fight actually becomes reality. I am a Georgian at heart, but my travels have made me question many things, including the issue that will be the cause of what might turn into a fierce battle within our own country.

  “I must say that now I wish I would have listened to you. I wish I would have stayed with you and our dear parents in Broken Rope, and of course had the opportunity to meet my new niece, but I chose another path and I simply cannot ignore the inner turmoil and conflict my experiences in the world are causing me.

  “Congratulations to you and Frederick on your newest daughter. Though my good wishes are delinquent, you must know that I am happy to my soul’s greatest depths for our family. May your life and family continue to be so blessed. I must tell you, dear sister, that I have no plans to return to Broken Rope right away. I will either stay in California or go straight to Georgia. I’m sure everything will be solved quickly and hopefully without the need for bloodshed. I look forward to the day we meet again and peace is restored to our country. I hope to be a part of making that a reality. With deepest regards, your loving brother, Isaac.”

  I folded the letter and looked at Gram and Joe.

  “I’m not sure how significant this is in the big historical picture, but I feel like I just stepped back in time. That was amazing,” I said.

  “I know,” Gram said. “All the letters have been interesting.”

  “So now what? What do we do?”

  “Well, we—you—have to try to find someone from the family and let them know what it says,” Gram said.

  So the we was going to be me. Gram hadn’t lost her impatience; she was just being delicate. My ability to see and talk to the ghosts had allowed Gram the luxury of tiring of them. She’d known them all her life and had mostly come to want to ignore them and their frustrating, sometimes poorly timed appearances and Swiss cheese memories. She enjoyed passing them and their burdens off to me.

  “That presents a number of challenges. How do I find them? How do I tell them about a letter that they can’t see? Why would they believe me?”

  Gram nodded slowly. “I’ve handled everything differently; every time a different lie. I’ve even forged my own versions of the letters sometimes. I’ve said that my mother once told me about the letter, or that I heard a story. No one has ever questioned me. Everyone is so happy to hear what I have to share that they’re just grateful for the news and don’t ponder the validity—they want to believe. As for how to begin, you have a resource that I have never been able to use—Jake. I can’t imagine a better connection for finding living descendants of those from the past.”

  “What kinds of letters have you delivered?” I asked.

  Gram shrugged. “All kinds. One or two, I think, needed money. One had money included. Jake would have loved to be able to see that one. One was particularly sad; a girl had run away from home because she was pregnant and unmarried, which, of course, was worse than death back then. She wrote her parents to let them know she was fine but ashamed and would never return home, in order to save her family from that same shame. Turned out to be a happy story though. I tracked down her people around here and they did some research and found that missing part of their family. The girl and her baby ended up living good lives, and the family, though many generations after the letter was written, was able to reconnect. And, of course, there are extraordinarily sad ones, too.” Gram paused. “Betts, I know I’ve told you that there’s nothing to be done for these ghosts. They’re dead; that’s never going to change, and you simply cannot alter what happened in their lives. It’s impossible. And, though we don’t know what will happen to Joe when the letters are delivered, we know he won’t come back to life. But for the living, perhaps there’s time to make things better, or, if not better, at least give them some answers they might enjoy having. It’s tricky. I’ve thought about this for many years. I’ve debated the importance of delivering these letters. I’ve debated whether it’s ethically wrong to deliver something that perhaps wasn’t—for whatever reason—supposed to be delivered. I guess that what it ultimately comes down to is this: Even answers that come late are answers, and I believe that I’d personally want to know, even if there was absolutely nothing I could do to change a situation.”

  “And . . .” Joe added quickly.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s something I have to do. Have to do. If I don’t . . . well, I’m not sure, but it’s something I can’t ignore.”

  There was something off about this ghost. He was less aware, ev
en while seeming to know more about his purpose for being here. The other ghosts I’d met all wanted answers to something, but there was more to them than just their ultimate goals. Events from their lives came back to them as they visited. They seemed to blossom a little. I didn’t think Joe would. I suspected his singular focus was all he could handle.

  I was suddenly tired. It had been one of the most emotionally taxing days I could remember. Beyond tired—I was on sensory overload. I hadn’t told Gram that Teddy was hurt or that Jerome was back, and I didn’t have the energy to do so at the moment. However, I had no doubt that I would help Joe. But not right this second.

  “I promise I’ll work on this. Starting tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Joe said.

  Gram smiled.

  Chapter 10

  “The show must go on, I guess,” I said as I looked out over the cooking school’s parking lot. The six Dutch oven stations were perfectly spaced, and from all indications, the cooking lessons were going to be as popular as Orly had predicted. Three large busses had brought the poets to the cooking school from the campsite right after sunrise. Though I didn’t think everyone who had come for the convention was attending the Dutch oven extravaganza, the vast majority certainly were.

  Gram and I had thought long and hard about the six recipes to use. We hoped one wouldn’t be lots more popular than the others. We wanted a fairly equal distribution of observers at each station. It looked like we’d achieved our goal with our variety of both sweet and savory options. The six recipes were monkey bread, cowboy stew, apple crisp, chili mac, breakfast cornbread, and Dutch oven pizza. Some of the recipes required the Dutch ovens only to be set on hot coals, but others required heat from both above and below, so they would have some coals on top, too.

  Orly had told us that most of the poets already knew their way around a Dutch oven, but that pretty much all of them would nevertheless be interested in demonstrations because their techniques might need tweaking, everyone enjoyed taste-testing, or you could never have too many recipes. He was right.